


Trouble in Brooklyn

by Casperwolf



Category: Newsies (1992)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Davey bashing, F/M, Underage Drinking, Violence, lots of fighting, old story being re-written
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-11-19 20:43:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11321355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Casperwolf/pseuds/Casperwolf
Summary: A year has past since the newsie's strike. With Manhattan under new rule, and Harlem looking to start a war; Trouble, Manhattan's new queen looks to New York's famous borough's royalty for help. Lines are drawn, and loyalties are tested.





	1. Character Information

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very old story that I started years ago on Fanfiction.net and never finished. Going to be re-writing it and posting it here and there. First chapter is just character information, second chapter will be posted shortly after.

ABOUT THE CHARACTER

Name: Alexandra Harper

Newsie Name: Trouble

Age: 17

Gender: Female

Facial Properties: Her face is pale with freckles spotting her cheeks. Her nose is button-like and cute in it's own way. Her eyes are a steely gray color and her hair is a dark shade of red. Her face is slender but not sickly, with high cheek bones and supple lips. The coldness of her eyes seems to sear right through you, and her hair trails down her back, though you wouldn't notice with how often she has it braided away and stored beneath her newsboy cap.

Physique: Her body is athletic like most newsies, slender and curvy. Not that you could ever see her figure through the baggy boys clothes she almost always wears. Her breasts are of a good size, and one could assume the rest of her is pale as well. She does have a slight tan to her, but not nearly as much as the rest of the newsie crew. She usually attributes this to her naturally fair skin. Trouble is of average height for a girl, standing at about five feet six inches.

Personality: Trouble is a fighter, hence the nickname, and she is very quick to lash you with the tongue that she wields like a sword.. She's very kind to people she trusts, but only in one on one situations. She learned to fight at a young age, and ever since then she has had the mindset of a street kid with nothing to lose. She is quick-witted, and she'll attack you with words as well as her fists. She has a soft spot for kids though. In recent years she has taken to caring for the younger ones of the streets, and Lodging Houses' like they were her siblings. She likes to believe that she is the best fighter, and the has the best aim with a slingshot in all of New York. She is cold to everyone at first, but she does have a sense of humor and fun. She is filled to the brim with sarcasm, and tasteful humor. Sometimes she can be rather crude, and violent, but she usually means well. Trouble doesn't believe in love, but rather chooses to believe that love is something unattainable to her. She likes to be straight-forward, but she does tend to dance around her words sometimes to confuse people. She'll never leave someone to be hurt if she can help it, even if it means getting herself injured in the process. She falls back to thievery when she's low on cash, and she also seems to attract trouble where ever she goes; another hallmark of her chosen name.

Likes: -Books (She'll never tell) -Swimming -Fighting -Boys (She'll never admit it) -Sparring -Confusing people -Making Trouble -Helping people (Which gets her into Trouble...) -Marbles -Her Slingshot

Dislikes: -Arrogance -Naivety -Annoying people -People who talk to much -Most other girls -Sitting in one place to long -Being forced into something -Being forced into conversation -Back talkers -People who are rude to her -People who Taunt her about being a girl -People who call her weak.

History: Not a lot is known about her past before she was on the streets, and that's just none of anyone else’s business. As far as she was concerned, she was born, and then she was a street rat.


	2. A Small History of Trouble

_"No one heard a single word you said. They should've seen it in your eyes. What was going around your head. - Bon Jovi "Runaway"_

* * *

_ June 15th 1895 - Bronx, New York (five years before the current timeline) _

At the young age of eleven, Trouble ran away from home, and found herself wandering aimlessly around the grimy streets of the Bronx. Exactly how she had managed to end up there, she couldn't tell you. The streets were coated in grim and a couple decade’s worth of coal dust, and in the dark of the night; Trouble could hear voices all around her. Call it paranoia if you want, but in the few weeks it had been since she had become a voluntary “orphan”, she had managed to keep herself out of trouble; for the most part. Thankfully, it had actually been some time since she had lived up to her nickname, but something about the way the shadows were stretched out across the alleyways was giving her a hefty case of the willies.

A phantom wind licked at the bare back of her neck, and she quickened her pace from leisurely stroll to hasty power-walk. As she rounded the corner and entered the small open area where four different buildings intersected, she stumbled into a solid object that by all knowledge shouldn't be there. The impact had sent her sprawling to the ground with a muffled grunt. _‘Ow! Probably some damn rubbish bin.’_ “Agh damn it, what the bloody hell…” she trailed off, her green eyes catching sight of a tattered shirt that definitely did not belong to a rubbish bin…

Standing before her was an obviously miffed boy who appeared to be a couple years her senior. "Hey I'm walkin' here! What's your problem punk, your eyes broken or something?" A prominent frown was etched on his face and his light blue eyes seemed to pierce right through her. She backed up quickly, and a nervous giggle escaped her lips as she lifted her hand up to rub the back of her neck sheepishly. “Oi, sorry ‘bout that mate. You came out of nowhere…” her rambling came to a slow stop as she watched nervously as the angry frown on his face shifted to a strange smile. He studied her carefully now, eyes looking her over as if trying to decipher a particularly difficult riddle. Like some sort of feral beast he began to circle her slowly, and never in her life before now had Alex felt more like a sheep who had strayed into the lion's den. "You. You're a girl aren't you? Why you dressed up like some manky boy?" He said this with such disdain that she was fairly certain if he'd spoken any louder he'd have been spitting. On a usual day Alex would have told him to get stuffed, but the way he was leering at her made her nervous.

Before she could even process the instinct to scramble away from him, his hands were already buried in her loose shirt and he was roughly yanking her up off the ground. Her eyes widened as fear flooded her body and she began to shake with excess adrenaline. This proved to only spur on the actions of the older boy, and he shoved her back against the alleyway wall; pinning her in place. "Maybe I 'aughta teach you a lesson about pushin' people," he commented smoothly. She babbled out incoherent words as she begged him to release her, but either he refused to listen or just didn't care enough to heed her rambled prayers. She barely noticed when one of his hands released the front of her shirt and he began to cock it back with purpose. Through some divine miracle, this boy was still too young to know the urges of a man, or if he did it wasn't yet strong enough of an instinct to overpower his anger of being bumped into by some street wretch.

Years from now when she looked back on this moment, she would thank whatever higher being had taken pity on her for even just that moment that he hadn't been a few years older or things might have ended much differently. "Maybe if you acted more like a girl, I wouldn't have to teach you this lesson, huh?!" he growled out. It was a fraction of a second later that she caught him readying his fist to pummel her into dust, and she closed her eyes to await the impact that she knew would be coming. Despite her seconds of preparation, she still released a surprised yelp of pain when his fist made impact on the side of her face. “Agh…” It hurt like hell, and she was instantly convinced that he had just broken her jaw; not that she actually knew what that would feel like.

She had instinctually clenched her eyes closed before the punch came, but now they flared open wide and she instantly regretted the action when she watched him pulling his arm back for another go. “Please!” He punched her again. “God please! What did I-“ and again “I'm so sorry” and again. This went on for what felt like hours, but realistically it was more like a few minutes. The red head drooped forward in his hands, her body trying its best to curl inward as much as possible. Her breath was all but gone, pissed away by the various body shots and pathetic whimpering that had tumbled off her lips.

When he finally removed the hand that was supporting her weight, she slid down against the wall with a dull scraping sound; her head lolling around weakly on her shoulders. With her vision blurring and her heart-beat hammering away in her ears, she barely caught the sound of approaching footsteps. Her pulse increased as another fresh wave of fear flickered through her aching muscles, her mind already imagining the fresh new hell that she was sure would accompany those shoes. Anyone else might have hoped that those shoes belonged to a knight come to save the damsel in distress, but Trouble was not laboring under false delusions. No one was coming to save her.

Rustling sounds surrounded her, and as she pushed through the crimson haze of pain and fatigue, she thought she heard the sound of voices nearby. “… buddy… coming…. should leave… gets here…” It was all broken garbage and she understood very little of what was being said, but she had gathered enough to understand that it was very possible that she had just been accidentally saved by the lucky appearance of whoever it was these boys feared. The short silence was shattered by the receding sound of feet hitting the ground as the boys thankfully fled in the wake of this potential new danger.

Now that she had a moment’s respite, she could tell her lips bleeding when the sticky liquid rolled idly down her chin. She was doubly sure that at least one of her ribs was broken, as it made this horrible creaking sound whenever she tried to move. That was on top of the intense and blinding pain that landed through her whenever she tried to breathe too deeply. Trouble lifted a hand to wipe away the sweat she could feel pooling above her brows, and frowned deeply when her hand came away covered in more blood. _‘Guess my heads bleeding too. Bloody brilliant. Just aces.'_ Sarcasm was a crutch, she knew this, but right now it was the only way she was processing what the hell had just happened to her.

She tried to focus her attention inwards, analyzing further the many aches and pains that assailed her. Her head was aching, her eyes felt like they were swollen, her jaw felt blissfully numb, but it seemed to her that every muscle in her torso felt like how she assumed freshly tenderized meat would feel. They hadn't left her untouched, that was for sure.

It was then that she heard, to her innate horror, the sound of feet once again pounding against the road. By this point she had resigned herself to death and the only sounds she heard over her swiftly beating heart was a panicked call for someone to hurry. She vaguely heard the sound of retreating footfalls, but her instincts told her that there was still someone lingering in her little alleyway. Spurred on by innate curiosity, she tried to lift her head to see who it was that had decided to stick around to stare at her.

A sharp gasp escaped her lips as she felt one of her arms being grabbed and it caused her to instinctively flinch away and her ribs protested soundly. A calm mumbling came from her right, and from what she could tell; whatever he was saying was meant to be taken as comforting. At the resounding echo of multiple people rushing into the alley, she felt her body once more begin to tremble. This served to only continue to agitate her wounds, and she grimaced as painfully as she felt her rib grinding around inside her.

“Wait, don't tug him like that, jeez!” The clarity of which she heard this new voice was startling, as everything else until that moment had sounded like they were talking to from her underwater. Almost blindly, she had turned her head towards the voice, but before she could get a good look in, two strong arms slipped around her body; one beneath her legs and the other cradling her torso gently and supporting her as she was lifted from the ground. Intense pain ricocheted up and down her entire body and she couldn't hold back the sharp gasp of pain that flew from her pale lips. Alex could feel the boy attempting to shift her around in his arms; trying to find a more comfortable position for her, but she could feel herself falling away into unconsciousness. “So sorry…. Please…” she whispered faintly, but then there was nothing but darkness.

* * *

  _June 15th 1895 - Bronx, New York (five years before the current timeline)_

 It had been a few years since the newsies of the Bronx had found her fading away in that dank back alley, and she was fourteen now. Alley, the leader of the Bronx newsies and who had been the one to find her, had taken her beneath his wing and taught her everything she would ever need to know about being a newsie. He had welcomed her into their little family with fully opened arms, and because of that he would always have Trouble’s undying loyalty. Alley had taught her how to fight, to sell, to “improve the truth” in order to better peddle her wares, and eventually she had even convinced him to teach her the finer points of poker. He’d regretted teaching her the game ever since.

That day had been a particularly hard sell day, and she was finishing up much later than usual. For the first year or so after the Bronx boys had saved her, Alley had commanded she be protected by at least one other boy at all times, but as the years had flown by without much incident; everyone had grown a little complacent. Plus, it hurt your image whenever you had a babysitter lurking around the corner eyeballing you all day. So, that day her escort had finished up earlier though he had protested, she’d sent him off to the diner without her; reminding him that she was a ‘big boy who could handle her own shit’. He’d simply shrugged her off and left wouldn't a second complaint.

So when once again Trouble found herself wandering down yet another alley, she couldn't fend off the sudden wave of deja vu that washed over her. Her steel-grey eyes darted around anxiously as the small hairs on the back of her neck began to prickle uncomfortably when she began to recognize the area she had just wandered into. Just like back then, she met the cold eyes of the boy who she had just caught staring her down. The worst part was when she came to the startling realization that she recognized them.

Recognition flared up within those cool brown eyes of his, and he smirked wickedly while crossing his arms over his chest. "Well, well, well. Look who the cat dragged in. Been a while, ay girlie?" Once she had overcome the initial shock of seeing him standing there, she hurriedly launched herself at the boy; her fighting instinct kicked in fast. No, this time she wasn't going to be the one who ended this curled up on the ground. Things ended in the flash, and she found herself pinned to the ground by her neck. She frantically looked around for something to fend him off with, fingers of both hands fumbling around in desperation for something to grab on to.

Luck seemed to be on her side today and her fingers hit against a lone brick. She quickly clasped her fingers tightly around the couch surface and swung it down against the boy's head. His body immediately went limp, and she struggled with all of her might to push him off of her. It took some work, but eventually she managed to wiggle herself free. Huffing and panting, she stared down at the forming puddle of dark fluid that weeped down from a rather large gash that parted the hair on the side of his head. For a minute she didn't breathe, her eyes trained stoically on his chest. "Oh shit.... Shit! What the fuck.... Don't be dead..." When he didn't breathe she learned forward and placed a pair of fingers on his neck; searching for a pulse. Seconds ticked by and Trouble felt her breathing sharpen and then grow ragged when it became obvious to her that she wasn't going to be feeling his heart beat again. She’d killed him. "Bloody hell."

She scrambled to her feet and ran. The redhead had no idea where she was going, or what she was going to do when she got there; she just ran. Her feet instinctually carried her to the Bronx Lodging house, the place that had sheltered and protected her for the last three years. Steel-grey eyes glanced around, alighting on the few familiar objects that signaled that she was home. Alley would understand that she had done what she needed to do to protect herself, but she was pretty sure that the others wouldn't. After making a quick decision, she packed what little stuff she had and scrawled out a quick goodbye note for for the Bronx leader. She took off from the Lodging house, and didn't look back. They wouldn't understand..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 20 points if you can guess why she ran away. 10 points for an attempt.


	3. The Flashback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trouble plans a party, but things obviously don't end like planned.

_Tell me why all the best laid plans fall apart in your hands, and my good intentions never end the way I meant. - James Blunt "Best Laid Plans"_

* * *

_ June 20th, 1900 - Manhattan, New York (late at night) _

_Drip, splash.…_

It was a dismal evening, and the sky outside seemed to be reflecting a certain newsie’s shit-poor mood. The rain pitter-patted softly against the cold window pane of the New York Lodging House, and it seemed to grant a certain amount of anonymity to the figure that haunted one of the top floor windows. A pair of steel-gray eyes started passively downward at the grimy windowsill with abject disdain, her thoughts flowing sluggishly like the rivulets of water that trailed down the glass before her. A tarnished, gray news cap sat haphazardly on the rough wooden sill, contrasting horribly against the white of the flaking paint below it. The lone figure shifted around silently as if trying to find a better position to be in. Her gaze seemed to pierce through the glass as she canted her head to the side subtly to stare out passed the window and out into the rain; an inquiring expression flickering on to her features.

A lock of dark, red hair tumbled out of the splotched newsboy hat that adorned her head and broke the girl’s concentration, she sighed. By the looks of that hat, it had actually been white at some point in time and had seen better days. Slender fingers absently reached upwards to push the lock of hair back up into the hat, but the movement seemed to be more out of habit than necessity. Another faint sigh slipped past her pale lips, and it echoed around the walls of the near-empty room. A trail of crimson liquid trickled out of the corner of her mouth, but the girl made no move to wipe it away or stem the flow. Sluggishly the line of blood worked its way down to her chin, only to tumble downward onto the pale, snow-colored shirt that she wore.

As if waking from a trance, the girl looked down at the spreading red mark that had appeared on her shit. For the first time, she seemed to realize that she was bleeding, and two fingers lifted to her lips and pressed down softly. Wincing, she pulled her fingers back away from her face and her gray eyes locked on the red substance that was smeared over her fingertips. Only a moment longer did she allow herself to stare at the blood, before she released the tension in her hand; dropping it back down to settle in her lap. Once again her eyes locked onto the dirty window. The rain was slowing, and she was no longer alone with her thoughts.

“Look at wha’ the day brought. Definitely not what I expected,” the girl muttered, her pale lips parting only wide enough for those words to ooze out. A boy, having been hiding just around the corner, appeared with his arms crossed and eyes worried. He shot the red head a sheepish smile, and rubbed the back of his head. Just from looking at him you could tell he couldn't be a day over twelve, but with how often he groused over her he could have been her elder brother. He shook his head as he caught sight of the dirt smudged all over her clothes, and he pushed off the wall to walk towards the girl. “How is it that ya always know someone’s heah?” The boy asked out of curiosity' stopping just inches fro, her side.

A nearly non-existent smile graced her lips, but she never looked away from the smeared glass. “Instinct, dove. Did you want somethin’?” she murmured with a slight chuckle. The kid shook his head slowly, somehow knowing instinctually that she would see it, even if she wasn't actually looking at him.  
“Nah, jus’ seein’ how you was holdin’ up.” The kid took a few hesitant steps closer to the brooding redhead, and noticed immediately noticed the blood that dribbled down her chin. The girl didn't reply. She didn't like having to explain herself, or her actions to anyone. The presence of the boy was quickly breaking down her quiet though, so she pried her eyes from the window and settled them on the prying kid standing beside her. “Trouble, you know youse bleedin’ right?” he asked, his bright brown eyes studying her pale face carefully. The girl released an exasperated sound and stood up from the window sil, aiming herself towards her bed. On the way, she snagged up an old rag that had been discarded earlier from her dresser and wiped at her lips.

Trouble canted her head and glanced over her shoulder at the boy and shrugged nonchalantly, “That better Les?” The boy’s expression brightened up and his lips curled into a contented smile. He closed the distance between them as Trouble plopped down onto her bed with a sigh. “To answer ya question love, I’m doin’ fine. Tell the others that, would you?” she entreated. She reached up to pull her hat off her head, and let her crimson locks fall freely down her back. Les smiled at her warmly, and signaled his agreement in the form of a head nod before turning tail and walking back out of her room.

Once the room was silent again, Trouble’s head once again buzzed with thought. Plus without the excuse of a distraction, she began to feel all the aches and pains she had accumulated throughout the day. Steely eyes narrowed as she recalled all of her carefully laid plans, and how they had all fallen apart.

* * *

_ June 20th, 1900 - Manhattan, New York (early morning) _

  
**Flashback**

_‘So many things to do, so little time to do them,’_ the youth thought to herself as she silently surveyed the small gathering of boys loitering around awaiting her orders. From her elevated spot on top of the statue’s platform, she began issuing her commands. “Right then. Boots can you take Snipes with you to Brooklyn when you go to speak with Spot Conlon about our little shindig, yeah?” she inquired. The young colored boy looked up at her, his previous conversation interrupted and dipped his head in assent. Cold, gray eyes shifted to study the tall, wavy haired brunette newsie with interest to see whether or not he would take the job. When the kid signaled his approval, the leader dipped her head in return and switched her gaze onto two others.

“Blink, Race, do you a handle on Queens?” This time she watched a blond with an eye patch and her little Italian buddy; awaiting a response. “Sure t’ing Trouba’, we’s be back before you miss us too much,” Race replied with a signature wink. A proud smirk graced the pale British girl’s lips as she once again nodded her head in acknowledgement. Race looked like he was going to say something else, but he was distracted by a elbow in the kidney from Kid. _‘Strange. Wonder what that’s about.’_

“Specs, Skittery, you’ll handle the Bronx, alright? Alley’s been asking after you two anyway,” she announced with a knowing smirk. She focused specifically on the taller boy who wore a rather old black bowler hat, and aimed a particularly evil grin at him. The other brunette glared at the back of Spec’s head ruefully. Truthfully, the real reason that she was sending those two in particular to the Bronx was because Alley had been asking around about them.

He had a sneaking suspicion that one of the two had been macking on his little sister. Understandably, he wanted a bit of a word with whichever it had been, and by the looks on both their faces they knew it too. Trouble didn't give the two the time enough to complain before she shifted her attention her final assignment. _‘But who should I send?’_

“Right then, let’s see here. Okay, Bumlets and… uh Jake! Brilliant! Bumlets and Jake, you two are heading out for Staten Island, yeah?” she announced uncertainly. Thankfully, the two cut her a break and nodded their heads in agreement. She shot a grateful smile to the longer haired Bumlets, and dishwater blond Jake. Once that was settled, she clapped her hands and jumped down off her perch. She only barely overheard the hesitant whispering of the two boys that were headed towards the Bronx, and she shook her head with a chuckle. Inwardly she was smirking wickedly, but outwardly she only turned to the remaining newsies and shared a confident smile.

The red head turned to her right and nodded her head at the two older boys who were currently leaning up against a cart. “Itey, Snitch, do you still have those contacts for our libations?” The two shared a knowing smile before turning towards her and nodding their heads. “We’ve got ya Trouba’.” “Leave that up ta’ us, fearless leada’” they both said simultaneously. It always astounded her how in tune the two appeared to her. Trouble blinked and dipped her head towards them in silent thanks before turning back to the others.

“Mouth, go fetch Cowboy for me, yeah?” She had phrased it like a question, but anyone who knew anything about her knew otherwise. Her word was law, and anyone who broke the laws got soaked. “The names Davey, and yeah I’ll go get Jack. Not because you told me to, just cause that was where I was goin’ anyways,” the curly headed older boy sneered. Trouble’s steely eyes narrowed on him as she digested the bitterness in the statement. “Sure you were. Now pocket that attitude and get out of here. Get a move on Curly Cue,” she retorted, her time leaving to room for argument but softened by sarcasm.

As she watched the brunette mop head leave like a kicked tomcat, she spat on the ground beside her, and fought the urge to chase him down and very vigorously teach him the penalty for disrespecting her like that. This hadn’t been the first time that **_Mouth_** had given her shit. Her inner Trouble wanted to give the kid a good and proper anointing for his half-assed attempt at back-talk, but her more refined (not by much) side continued to hold her back. _‘He’s just sore cause he isn't able to control me like he does Jack,_ ’ she reminded herself.

Beating down her dislike for ‘Mouth’, she turned her attention back to the boys who were still staring at her; waiting. _‘Now where is Crutchy…’_ She craned her head to the side and smiled as she spied the outgoing boy leaning heavily on his newly purchased crutch that her and a few of the boys had pulled together for. “Hey Crutch, follow after him, yeah? Make sure he gets to where he needs to be.” In reply, he just gave her a thumbs up before turning and calling after the retreating figure that was Les’ elder brother.

“The rest of us get to go to Medda’s and set up for the meeting,” she stated, her fingers gliding along the bill of her newsboy hat out of habit. A cheer rang out around her and the boys all turned to start out for the old theater, or other pre-arranged places to get ready for tonight. As the others all dispersed around her, two hung back with her; Mush and Les. With a genuine smile on her face, Trouble turned around and headed back to the Lodging house with Les’s hand clasped in her left, and Mush’s tanned arm wrapped around her waist.

Life was good.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 20 points too whoever can guess who made Trouble bleed. 10 points for trying.


	4. Alley's Borough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following Trouble's orders, Skittery and Specs grudgingly tackle the three hour walk to the heart of the Bronx to invite Alley and his newsies to a party.

_"You delight in showing mercy. Mercy triumphs over judgment." - Bethel_

* * *

  _9:00 AM June 20th, 1900 — Bronx, New York (Specs and Skittery)_

 Skittery, at fifteen, was one of the few older boys that called the Manhattan lodging house their home. He had deep brown hair that was long enough to fall into his eyes, when he wasn't pushing it backwards that is. He had long, dark eyelashes that framed even darker brown eyes. His handsome face was narrow, and he sported a strong jaw and thin lips. What really pulled his whole look together was the sun-kissed tan that he had earned over a lifetime of pushing papes every morning. In the rush of the morning he had forgotten to dress in his better outfit of a long-sleeved, dingy white polo and brown vest. Instead he had mistakenly grabbed his more eccentrically hued pink long-sleeve polo. The mistake made him feel a little off-kilter; verified by the way he was anxiously fingering the two straps of his suspenders.

His anxiety had not gone unnoticed by his cohort, Specs, who was in a similar state of unease. Skittery had watched the older boy remove and replace his black bowler hat several times since they started out, and it was beginning to become annoying. Skits studied the slightly taller brunette out of the corner of his eyes, envying the fact that he looked much more put together than him. He was dressed in his usual long sleeved white polo, dark green vest, and earth-toned slacks.

“Da fuck you lookin’ at Skits?” the boy in question asked suddenly. Skits just shrugged his shoulders and looked his gaze back towards the sidewalk, but not before catching the other adjust his round-framed glasses in annoyance. It there was one thing that the younger boy could thank god for today, it was that Specs had remembered to grab his glasses today. The boy was near-sighted as fuck without them and Skits hadn’t looked forward to the idea of possibly having to drag him around a city he didn't know particularly well.

Skittery was not afraid to admit that he was nervous. Whether it was because of the look that Trouble had given them before they left, or the fact that they had been sent here of all places. This was not going to be any fun, he could just tell. The entire walk over he and Specs must have gone over what they were going to say a million times since their “merciful leader” had sent them skipping off into the lion’s den. The brutal truth of the matter was that they had both kissed Siren—Alley’s little sister—and one of the Bronx’s best and well loved “boids”. The real kicker was that they were both fully aware of just how protective the Bronx leader was of his sister.

Really though, they had both been a bit surprised and a little betrayed at the thought that Siren would rat them out to her brother. It wasn’t like she hadn't been all over the two during their rendezvous; separately of course. Still, it was possible that she hadn't actually been the one to tell him, as Alley had a whole flock of “little boidies” at his beck and call. Alley prided himself on the fact that he ran one of the biggest spy networks in all the boroughs of New York. Someone could have just seen them, and ran off to tell the big guy. Honestly, that seemed the most likely explanation.

The Bronx was a little unnerving, even in the daylight, and they had only made it half-way through to the Bronx Lodging house so far. “So, let’s go over dis’ again. We’s going ta’ told ta’ da fact that there are a bazillion mugs in dis’ city, and the boid had to be mistaken,” Specs prompted.

“I don’t tink dat’s gunna go off too well wid’ Alley, Specs. It's like we’s insultin’ him when yous insult his boids,” Skittery replied grimly. They were dead, that was it.

The brunette boy had accepted this fact around an hour ago, but of course Specs had to try to be smart and find a way to talk his way out of their impending doom. Specs made a noise of some sort, somewhere between a grunt and a moan. “Your right, but we’s gotta tink of somethin’ ta’ say or we’s toast,” Specs argued, now with a distinct whimper in his voice.

“We’s worse than toast. We’s dead. Very, very dead,” Skittery shot back.

Yeah, Skittery was scared too, but at least he wasn't whining quite as much as the bowler-hatted boy was. If anything, he was internally cursing his “fearless leader” for offering them up like tribute to her “so called” old friend. If they really were such good friends, why didn't she just call in a favor and save their asses from the thorough soaking that they were unwillingly walking into. ‘She had ta’ know ‘dat the only way we’s gunna walk our happy asses back to ‘da Bronx was if she gave us no choice. Sneaky sonovabitch,’ he cursed inwardly.

Once Specs had sunk into a resigned—albeit brooding—silence, the trip seemed to speed up; much to the boy’s dismay. About three hours from when they set out from the Manhattan Lodging House, they found themselves right outside the door to the Bronx bunk house. They had been standing outside the place for almost twenty minutes, bickering about who was going to be the one to knock and enter first. The thought of turning right back around and going home had actually crossed their minds a dozen times, and was beginning to look more and more appealing the longer they stood there. The only thing that kept their feet cemented to the stoop, was their innate fear of Trouble’s fists and fury if they didn't return with the Bronx’s leader’s reply to her gracious invite.

“Maybe we’s can jus’ lie and tell her ‘dat no one was home?” Specs whispered to him quietly.

Skittery was about about to tell him what he really thought of his dumbass idea, the door swing open. Despite their attempts to keep their voices down, they had drawn someone downstairs and out to greet them. He didn’t look pleased. What’s worse was that they actually recognized the burly, black-haired boy.

“Either you’se in or ya not. Choose quick, I’m missin’ a pokeh game upstairs cause a youse two bums,” the boy grunted.

“‘ey deah Hookie, what’s shakin’? Is Alley in?” Skittery asked, surprising himself with the steadiness of his voice. ‘For ‘da love of lady liberty, please say no,’ the younger brunette pleaded to himself.

“Yeah, get in. Da boss is upstairs,” Hookie replied shortly before opening the door wider, and heading for the stairs. “Don't forget ‘ta shut ‘da door after ya,’ he muttered on his way back up the stairs.

The two boys paused at the stoop to exchange fearful looks before crossing the threshold. Specs attempted to push the younger brunette ahead of him, but only succeeded at stumbling over the first step nervously. Skittery just shook his head and shot the bespectacled boy a heady glare, before heading back to quietly shut the door.

“We are screwed,” Specs murmured under his breathe.

Silently the two boys inched forward, and then equally as hesitantly they climbed the stairs. They’d come this far, and at this point even Specs had given up on saving himself. Upon entering the wide room, the two boys were surprised to find many similarities to their own bunk house back in Manhattan. A few card tables were scattered around the room, dozens of unmade bunks, and even a door in the back of the room that they assumed lead to the community bathrooms. Their introspective surveying was abruptly shattered as a voice broke the heavy silence that had pervaded the air in the usually bustling room.

“Ah Specs, Skittery. Good ‘ta see ya’. I'm guessing dat from you’se two being heah, ‘dat ya leadah relayed my message.”

Shivers ran rampant down both of the two Manhattan boy’s spines as they turned to catch the hazel eyes of the infamous Bronx leader; his sister Siren sitting in a place of honor to his right. The gem of the Bronx was a slip of a girl, slender and willowy where it mattered. Her rosy lips were parted slightly over straight white teeth, and her chocolate locks were groomed with extensive care—falling in gentle waves over her right shoulder. Her eyes were the richest chocolate brown the boys had ever seen. It wasn't hard to see how both boys might have managed to land themselves into trouble where she was concerned.

"Uh… Heya deah Alley. Long time no see, eh?" Specs replied, his voice shaking nervously.

"We's actually here cause our leader wanted to invite yous to a party ta'night at Medda's," Skittery shakily added. They watched in horror as Siren smiled calmly and waved a petite hand at them in greeting. ‘Dis boid is tryin’ ta’ get us killed, I sweah,’ Skits thought to himself as fear once more settled down heavily on his shoulders.

An amused smirk formed on Alley's face as he stood up from his seat at the shabby card table. Now Alley wasn't a small teen, so when he stood and easily matched heights with the two ‘hattan boys, they immediately cowed. He lifted a large, calloused hand and ran it through the longer, dish-water blond hair of his brushed back fade, straightening up the few strands that had fallen into his eyes. “I see. Well, business first ‘den. Tell ya leadah that we’ll be deah. Me, Siren, and a few ‘udda boys,” he replied calmly. He then spat into his hand and held it out to the two expectantly.

Specs and Skittery eyed the hand like it was a ready-loaded bear trap, but eventually Skits managed to muster up the little courage he had left and walked towards the older boy. Spitting into his own hand, he grasped Alley’s and shook. Their hands released, their business drawing to a close. Then came the bad part. “Right then, we’ll just be goin’ now…” Specs said, as he slowly retreated backwards in the direction of the door.

“Ah, see… now we’s got a problem,” Alley’s voice chased them as he began to speak. “See, a little boidie told me ‘dat one or both of youse was kissing on my sistah Siren here,” he continued, his voice going serious. This was the part that they had both been dreading ever since Trouble had all-but-ordered them to the Bronx. Now it was about this time that Skittery had also begun to slowly back up towards the door. “And see, we’s need to have a little chat about ‘dat before I can let youse two leave,” Alley finished. The Bronx leader snapped his fingers and glanced over the shoulders of the two boys. As if sensing a presence, the two looked behind them to find Cricket staring them down from the very doorway they had been trying to exit out of.

Where Alley was all height and lean muscle, Cricket was carved from sterner stuff. He stood almost as tall as his leader did, but most of his bulk came from his broad shoulders. He smirked challengingly as he crossed his broad arms over his muscled chest. All in all, he was about as massive as an ox, and was one of the boys that they least wanted to see standing between them and sweet freedom. A slow whimper escaped Spec’s lips, and a look of horror appeared on his face. If Skits hadn't also been standing in the frying pan, he probably would have cracked up at the look on the elder boy’s face. As it stood, Skittery was about ready to piss his shorts instead.

Alley strode up to them and draped his arms over both of their shoulders, startling them both. “See boys, I don't like people kissin’ my sistah wid’out my express permission,” he said slowly, his words helping to dig their mental graves. Both boys began to shake their heads in horror, and completely throwing out their previously concocted responses that they had practiced on the way over.

“Honest Alley, We was just havin’ some fun. We didn't do anythin’ wrong ta’ her, or nuthin’,” Specs whimpered.

“Yeah, honest Alley, we didn’t mean no harm,” the younger brunette added.

Suddenly a loud roar of laughter hit their ears, and the two ‘hattan boys glanced nervously back and forth between Alley and his boys, confused as to why they were all laughing. The boys shared a confused look, and Alley released their shoulders and walked back over to his sister. Alley curled forward with laughter, having to hold onto the back of his chair momentarily so he didn't fall over. After a moment he managed to stifle his laughter enough that he waved his hand at the two of them dismissively.

“Sorry boys, I had ta' pay wid' you a bit. It was all fun, and games 'dis time, but watch it. Get home, yah leadehs probably worried 'bout you two." Alley said, his face still scrunched up in laughter.

For a moment Specs and Skittery couldn't understand their own good luck, and just stood their stunned. ‘Wait, wha’ jus’ happened heah?’ the younger boy thought to himself. The young brunette shook his head to clear his mind of the confusion. He then nodded his head quickly at Alley whilst smacking the other ‘hattan boy’s chest with the back of his hand; shaking him from his stupor. They turned and watched warily as Cricket moved aside to allow them to scramble out the door. Their exit was followed by a medley of laughter, but both were running way too fast to notice.

They had gotten off easy this time, but hell if they weren't good and ready to get back home where they would assuredly be safe. They almost didn't stop running until they reached the borders of the Bronx. Once they had slowed enough to catch their collective breathes, Skittery heard the other boy begin to laugh.

“Ya know, that wasn't so bad,” Specs offered, looking at him with a slight smile. All Skittery could say in response was muttered grumbles, but of course he also lashed out a fist to cuff the side of the dirty blond’s head.

“Ah fuckin’ shut ‘cha trap, moron,” he growled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Question Time: What drama will Kid Blink and Racetrack Higgins find in Queens?


	5. The King of Brooklyn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boots and Snipeshooter travel to Brooklyn to beg the King for a favor.

 " _My crown is called content, a crown that seldom kings enjoy. - William Shakespeare"_

* * *

_June 21, 1900 -- Manhattan, New York_

Once Les had left, she went back to pondering how things had gone so wrong. The night had been set up beautifully. They had asked Medda to host the gathering in her theater and she had agreed wholeheartedly; even offered to put on a little show for them if they wanted. Trouble had sent out ambassadors to the different borough leaders, and even managed to scrounge up enough change to get Itey and Snitch to buy cigars, cigarettes and some booze from their old contacts. Of course something happened to go wrong though. Something always went wrong.

Silently she nursed her bruised knuckles as she continued to watch the rain pound against her window, with the distinct lack of sound downstairs, she knew that most of the boys had likely turned in for the night; most probably so piss-drunk that they’d sleep where they fell. Her bunkhouse was littered with newsies, and not just her own. Boys from the Bronx, Staten Island, and even Queens were also mixed in with her own mates, but none from Brooklyn remained.

This had failed, and they were very much alone. Without Brooklyn it was highly unlikely that the rest of the boroughs would be willing to give them aid. Maybe Alley would, but he’d expect an explanation about the night she had left without a word and she just wasn't ready to admit to that particular sin yet. Most likely in the morning Trigger, Alley and Booker would give some soppy excuses about why they were leaving her and her ilk to Harlem’s mercy and go about their own business. This was even more likely if Brooklyn sided with Harlem, or the more likely option, declared that Brooklyn wouldn't help either side. Neither of those outcomes meant anything good for Trouble and her newsies.

Trouble wanted to scream. She wanted to break something or hurt someone, but her body just wasn't going to let her. It was already screaming at her to law down and sleep so she could get some time to recover. She was stubborn and hot headed though and she would lay down when she damn well pleased, not when her body wanted her to. Besides, how could she sleep right now, when her Manhattan was in as much trouble as it was, huh? It just wouldn't be right, and she wasn't about to give up everything was lost yet.

She couldn't justify throwing away all the hard work that her boy’s had put in to make this summit as good as it had been, and she couldn't let Boots and Snipes down after they’d managed to wrangle Spot into coming in the first place. Tomorrow was another day. Tomorrow she would go to Brooklyn herself and get Spot to throw their support behind them; even if it killed her.

* * *

_9:00 AM June 20th, 1900 — Brooklyn, New York (Boots and Snipe Shooter)_

Crossing the bridge was a simple chore for the two younger boys, but something about this adventure was grating Boot’s mind. It was something that he had been mulling over since they’d set out from ‘Hattan and started their three hour trek to Brooklyn. Why had he and Snipes been chosen for this auspicious duty? Well the odd part wasn't that he had been sent to Brooklyn, it was that he’d been sent with Snipes of all people. Trouble always sent him to visit Conlon because they’d had a rapport for a couple years now, or Jack if he wasn't busy with Sarah and their business, but never Snipeshooter. The curly-headed brunette usually went to visit Alley in the Bronx with Crutchy.

_‘I really hope this kid don’t get me in trouble today. He never knows how to keep his trap shut.’_ Boots thought to himself, eyeing the boy ruefully. They’d both grown up in the last year, but Snipe had probably done the most changing. He’d shed his baby fat since the strike, maybe it was all the walking they’d done. His hair was even more unruly, but he kept it tamed by the over-large grey newsboy cap. Originally he’d gotten it hand-me-down from one of the older boys because it was big enough to hide his ears, or so he said. _‘Spose he’s grown into them alright now.’_

Snipes was wearing his usual attire of light grey long-sleeve, tan slacks and matching tan suspenders. Altogether, he looked kind of sloppy compared to how Boots had dressed today. Sure he was wearing basically what he did every day, but he’d been sure to clean everything best he could. His pale pink shirt was mostly spot-free and buttoned up tight around his neck. He’d even done up the cuffs of his long sleeves. Most of the boys back in ‘Hattan poked fun at his choice of shirt color, but he was of the opinion that pink complemented his dusky complexion; at least the girls thought so. Over top of that he’d pulled on his nice dark brown vest, he’d scrubbed that thing all week to get it clean enough. He’d done the same to his neat black slacks, and black leather boots. Hell, he had even purchased a new slate grey newsboy cap from the supply store. He looked damn good, hopefully that would be enough.

The young newsies did their usual ritual of screaming off the side of the bridge as they crossed the monument and into Spot’s territory. Hopefully their friendly neighborhood tyrant was in the mood for company, or they would both be puppy chow by night fall. _‘Ha, puppy chow. Spot. Haha,’_ Boots thought to himself as he fingered the small treasure trove of marbles that he had been smart enough to bring as a gift to the mighty King of Brooklyn. The marbles—shooters as the Brooklynite called them—were a small tradition between himself and Spot. Boots would bring the boy a handful of the colorful glass orbs, and Spot would usually guarantee him his full attention. _‘I just hope he’s had a good day…’_

It didn't take long for the feeling of being watched crept up the back of Boot’s spine. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck prickle as he scanned the area around them. They’d barely been in Brooklyn territory for a handful of minutes and already they were being tailed. Boots flicked his hand out to grab Snipe’s attention with a subtle tap on his arm. They both glanced around nervously as they continued to trudge along towards the docks, despite the blatant glares of the two brooklynites that were ‘welcoming’ them into the neighborhood. Apparently Brooklyn was being more cautious these days.

Boots shifted his eyes to glance at his younger companion, and strangely felt a little better when he realized he wasn't alone in his anxiety. To be fair to himself and Snipes, he didn't know many others who wouldn't be afraid with two… well now three guys that were bigger than them trailing behind them throughout the entire borough. _‘It definitely doesn't feel like Christmas, I’ll tell ya that.'_ It felt like forever passed them by before they finally reached the docks. By now they had a grand total of five guys following behind them, and they had nearly given up and ran home with their tails between their legs.

“I never t’ought havin’ a poi’sonal escort would feel ‘dis menacin’…” Snipes whispered to him out of the corner of his mouth.

Boots nodded his agreement before glancing back behind him with a shaky smile. Sure they scared him but he feared Trouble more, so leaving wasn't really an option; at least not until they talked to Spot and relayed their message. Trouble wouldn't be as kind if they admitted to getting spooked and bailing. He’d noticed Snipes looking over his shoulder a whole lot, and reminded himself again that he needed to ask Trouble for a less skittish companion next time. His kid was giving him anxiety just looking at him. As they walked down the docks towards the rambunctious gaggle of boys near the end, Boots spent his time looking around for a specific one among the many. He watched as a dozen or so took turns doing flips and cannonballs off the edge of the docks and into the chilly river below. With how hot it was looking to get today, he was sure it felt wonderful.

They stopped about twenty feet or so from a familiar stack of crates, and watched in silence as three of their escorts walked around them and settled down on the crates like they were comfy love seats. The two ‘hattan boys glanced behind them to see that the other two had decided to loiter behind them, blocking off their exit. Most of the boys who had previously been causing a ruckus around them had stilled, casting an eerie quiet over the area.

"Well looky heah boys. It's Boots and Snipeshoota from 'Hattan."

He and Snipes looked forward at nearly the same time only to come face to face with the one and only Spot Conlon. It wasn't like he was right up in their faces, but he was close enough that Boots heard Snipes let out a low whimper. Boots smiled a bit at the King of Brooklyn and reached deep into his pocket to pull out the gift he’d brought as tribute. He opened his hand as he held it out in front of him, his lips curling into an excited smile, “I gotcha some more shooters Spot, and a message for ya from Trouble.”

Spot stared at them expectantly, having walked out from around the pile of crates. His usually light brown hair was darkened by river water and pushed back like he’d been dragging his fingers through it recently. At seventeen, Spot was almost too old to be pushing paper’s still, but with the stranglehold of fear and respect he had on the various boroughs of New York, it wasn't really surprising that he hadn't wanted to give up the power yet. Boots realized that the boy had done some growing in the near half year it had been since they’d last gotten together for drinks. He was taller than him now, and a little broader in the shoulders.

“So I heah,” Spot replied with a sly smile.

It only took a few seconds to realize that Spot had never asked him why they were there, he had just acted like he had expected them to show up. ‘Was he waiting for us? Damn those boidies of his,” Boots thought to himself ruefully. While Alley claimed to have the biggest network of ‘little boidies’ in all of New York, Boots was pretty sure that that title rightfully belonged to the King of Brooklyn. Even so, it's not like Spot would ever cop to that, it would draw attention to the spies he had.

“How’s Jacky-boy doin’ ‘dese days? Still playin’ at house with ‘dat Sara boid?” The Brooklynite inquired, leaning against the tall crate pile, smile still on his lips and cane twirling in his hand. He was dressed in his usual off white and red checkered shirt, and dark brown slacks which were held up by his signature red suspenders. His usual medium gray cap was shoved ungracefully in his back pocket, hanging out next to his hand carved slingshot.

Boots was a bit confused about why he would be asking about Cowboy at a time like this, but he figured humoring Spot was the best option for his health. He lowered his hand, clenching the marbles in his fist. “He’s been good. Been workin’ as a… um. ‘Prentance to our man Denton ova’ at ‘da Sun, whateva’ ‘dat is. Marryin’ Sarah soon too,” he replied, though he was a bit put out that Spot was ignoring his original reason for being there. He watched with a apprehensive smile as Spot pushed off against the crates and begin to walk towards him. Once the other boy was close enough, Boots lifted his hand again to allow Spot to peruse the marbles that he’d brought for the occasion. The king grabbed up a few of them and nodded before turning around and settling down on his ‘throne’. He them one at a time towards the light and examined them before deciding they were adequate and shoving them in his pocket.

“So what’s ‘dis Trouble send ya heah’ ‘ta tell me Boots?” He finally asked, leaning his arm against a few planks of wood that he used as an armrest. Boots smiled back at the boy, glad to finally be getting back on subject.

“Invites ya ‘ta a meetin’ of ‘da leadahs’ at Medda’s ta’night. Dere’s gunna be free booze and ‘udda stuff. Feel free ‘ta invite some ah’ ya boys, ‘cause it's gunna be a pahty to rememba’,” Boots replied, his smile growing as he noticed the tension slowly lifting from his shoulders. Though the pressure was still there, it had loosened enough that it wasn’t as stifling now.

It wasn't hard to notice the small smirk that had spawned on the famous Spot Conlon’s lips, but with what Boots knew of the boy, a smile could mean anything. It was New York’s worst kept secret that the Brooklyn leader was still mildly pissed off at Cowboy for turning scab that one time. Word was that he hadn't been able to forgive him all the way, but would that mean he still wouldn't come now that Jack had gone and grown up on them? Inside his pocket, Boots crossed his fingers for luck. Brooklyn had to come or no one else would. A small whimper caught his attention and Boots glanced over at Snipes who was—at that very moment—being stared down by three of Spot’s newsies and looked ready to break down crying.

“Aces, Bookeh, Thrice, back off,” Spot barked, giving them an icy glare and motioning for them to knock it off. He glanced back at Boots and smiled, “Tell ‘dis Trouble person ‘dat I’ll be ‘deah, and ‘dat ‘dis betteh be good.” He stood then and walked down in front of him. He stopped and spat into his hand without hesitation and extended it out to the younger newsie.

Boots could barely contain his sudden happiness to a single chuckle, but he managed. After spitting into his own hand and shaking Spot’s he turned to Snipeshooter and smirked. They’d succeeded! He nudged the visibly shaken boy to signal his intention to leave, and turned around to begin the long trek home, good news in hand. ‘Maybe this is the start of a good luck streak for us. Go knows we need it.’

“Dat wasn't so bad, huh? Jack said Spot was gunna have us jumped or somethin’ before he’d heah’ us out,” Snipes muttered to him, a relieved smile on his thin lips. Boots just shook his head and motioned over his shoulder. He watched with an amused smile as Snipe’s previous smile fell from his face as he spotted the same three newsies that had been staring at him following closely behind them.

“Sure, wasn't too bad. Coulda’ been woi’se, but let’s just get to ‘da bridge quickly, yeah?” Boots quipped back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So heads up to anyone actually reading this, my cat died this weekend. She was killed by my roommate's dog and I had to hold her when she passed. I'm a little messed up right now, but I'll try to keep the updates coming as regular as I can. Hope everyone likes the newest chapter. I'd love to hear your thoughts. 
> 
> 20 points if you can guys what went wrong at the party.

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own anything recognizable from the Newsies world, except for any OC's that may appear. All rights belong to Disney.


End file.
